


karma got its vengeance for the heroine & other totally relatable quandaries

by yuhye



Category: Suddenly Became a Princess One Day, Who Made Me a Princess?
Genre: F/M, Multi, a mix of canon & me just making shit up soooo, also there's a lot of background to my MC's body in here so, does align to canon so!!, expect more events following the webtoon/novel :))), this is gonna take YEARS so slow burn babeee, we all hated claude yet he's That Fine as Hell, we are all the MC, well maybe not as dumb but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuhye/pseuds/yuhye
Summary: When I opened my eyes, I had became a princess! But not any princess, the last ex-princess now-concubine to an emperor. The man who doesn’t have single drop of blood nor tear to drop, that heartless, handsome emperor Claude! How will Thia survive his brutal ways, and come out of this with not only her life, but also with the Princess Athanasia's? oc/claude yeeeess and it's Mature only cause my OC loves to talk shit & some dirty lol.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_Bubbles._

I blinked up at them, round and iridescent, as they carried my last breath up, up, up to the cold, wavering surface. I blinked once more. I blinked five times per second as my undone hair clung to the sweat of my cheeks. Frantic, I was suddenly running because it was  behind me, hot on my heels.  

Death had taken the form of one influential man, and we were all running from his imperial guards’ iron grasps.  We, the beautiful, blooming women, were scrabbling over each other with our finely manicured fingers, thoughtlessly leaving behind our opulent heels, and running with glossy hair clinging to the dampness of our painted faces. We were in a desperately lost battle yet we were still fighting. Each desperate woman for her desperate self. Except for me when it came to her. 

When I rounded onto another hallway, another woman shoved into me, the collision forcing me onto a broken balustrade. My elbow scraped the gritty ends, and it was the final straw that gave me into the exhaustion. As though my consciousness had known, I glanced down and squinted onto what might be a lobby area of the palace.

Exhaustion was heavy, but terror was overwhelming, anchoring me down to the rumpled carpet as I slunk closer to the marble rails.

Dead. My eyes couldn’t tear away. I was wholly, entirely petrified. Yet my eyes moved along, counting along the bodies _—_ not the guardsmen who strode quickly around the dead _—_ but the twelve women strewn still across the scarlet carpet. I could’ve mistaken them for porcelain dolls tossed aside in a little girl’s bedroom had it not been all that blood.

Gagging, I forced myself to stand and stumbled down the hallway. I had to make it to her. A wave of questions was drowning my mind to stop and answer, but I had no time. My priority was to find and help her. I’d much rather surrender and have death find me, but that was not how death will find me. Sense was still with me, ordering me to keep it together, to run. The main halls were overtaken, so I had to find a window to go up to her. Find a window. I could do that, yes, I could, seeing the hall ended with one.

“Go,” I mumbled and tried sliding the glass up. There was a discordant screech; however, it wasn’t the window opening. It was locked. Another disturbing screech—then nothing at all. Fear instilled in every nerve, I turned to search my surroundings before heading for a decorative suit of armor.

_A suit of armor?_

“Go to her,” I said through chattering teeth and dragged the armor with all my strength. I had to be insanity-driven as I was capable of shakily lifting the entire suit over my head, before hurling it toward the windowpane.

Tiny shards scattered in my hair, cut infinitesimally across my face, but the window was open.

Glass crunched under my palms as I crawled on my hands and knees out of the window, out of hell. My pinchy slippers planted onto a gnarled tree branch as I steadied myself, blood smearing against rough bark. Like a professional, I perched upon a sturdy branch that stretched toward an open window. For some unspeakable reason, I heaved my skirts into my bloody fists, crawled back into hell, and I ran for my life once more.

Like bubbles I swore I’d seen floating moments ago, I was making my way up, up, up to the highest room the Ruby Palace had to offer. The most prestigious room granted to the expectant, which is something I’d never wanted, but it carried someone I’d always wanted. _I want to see her._ Exhaustion seeped into my bones as I climbed the last bit of stairs and rested against the double doors holding the person I wanted to see the most.

I breathed in. _Please, Stars, hear my plea._ I breathed out, both hands flat against the grainy wood, and I pushed with my remaining strength.

There was a blanketed bed, atop with a mass of pure-white flowers were arranged around her seemingly sleeping countenance. Dawn’s light glided over her still, bedridden figure atop soft blankets, fills her open hand lay, palm up, fingers curved inward in an elegant stir as though a lulled lotus, before stretching by her bedside, onto a cloth-covered babe’s cradle.  

“Am—” I sobbed, and collapsed by her side, “Am I too late?”

Who was there to answer, other than the telltale silence of the woman in bed? This couldn’t be true, I couldn’t have failed her. I needed to see her for myself. As I kneeled on my folded skirts, I averted from seeing if she was truly asleep and brushed blood and glass from my palms before slowly holding her upturned hand into both of mine. For some reason, I was waiting for her fingers to wrap around mine, like she’d usually did. Nothing, yet her palm was still notably warm like it always was.  

“I’m so sorry,” I wept and squeezed her hand, closer to the hurt tormenting my heart. “I cannot stop him. I detest him, always have, and he detests me. He’d never listen. But with you—he’ll only listen to you.” Heartache dashed the hope I’d so badly wanted for her, for her not only to stop the heartless savage he ruled as, but for her to be happy. Even if it had to be with _him_. “For a man with no reason, you could always sway his mind. One and only you. But you’re not here, are you, Diana?”

I look up, right into the still, stunning features of Diana. Even in death, she was as rare and as lovely as they came. And now she was gone. Relentless, tears heaved behind my eyes but I had no more time to mourn. “I hope the heavens find you well,” I murmured and gingerly returned her hand to her still side.  A weight tethered to Diana tied me down as it pained me to turn and approach the cloth-covered cradle.

There was nothing, no sound at all. Dread chilled me to my tired bones. Yet I found courage to peel back the cloth cover and pressed my tight lips together in an act of indignant sorrow. There was no sound, but there were eyes like cursed sapphires. They blinked up at me, round and child-like, and I blinked back at them.

_We’re both in this together now, aren’t we?_

She made a humming noise as I embraced her close to my chest, comfortably as though her mother would’ve wanted to. “Hello, darling,” I greeted her, and her sapphire eyes squinted with a childish innocence, “I am most honored to acquaint with Your Imperial Highness, the Princess Athanasia de Alger Obelia.” Donned with a sad smile, I pressed my forehead against Athanasia’s, and I passed all my love over to _you_.


	2. o n e

This is fine, just fucking peachy.

Let’s write this all down, in my head. There’s a lot to take in, but we’ll go down the list one by one, just like the cops tell you when you’re brought in— _wrongfully_ , of course, ‘cause what harm can little, innocent me do?—for a bunch of unrelated shit. I’m confused, are these men cops? Old-timey cops in old-timey, like, European uniforms? Oh yeah, I’m being dragged by one arm as in the other, I’m carrying a screechy baby. Somehow, the old-timey cops are ignoring all that but I, for one, am gonna have an eardrum aneurysm. Is that a thing? That’s totally a thing ‘cause it’s happening to me right now.

So, like, I’m having an aneurysm in my ears. ‘Cause of scream-o baby. The cops don’t even care.

“Hey, kid,” I coo in a voice I only use for purebred teacup pomeranians, “put a sock in it, huh? Yes, you, honey pie angel food cake gâteau au chocolat—” Okay, I’m done, she’s still screaming. Where the hell is her mom? Oh shit, wasn’t that dead lady her mom? Diana—is that the mom’s name? Umm, she better have called up her baby daddy ‘cause I definitely don't pay child support. Babies are hella hideous (unlike teacup pomeranian puppies, okay, there’s a _difference_ ); they look like raisin-wrinkly rat babies. _I’m making myself sick_. I plant a fist to my mouth as I hold the baby out to the cop holding my arm captive.

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps on marching forward, so I ground my heels onto the carpet. Finally, he meets my eye and gives me a blank look. “We must be on our way,” he tells me and yanks me forward. The other cops don’t even spare a glance back at us.

“What’re my charges?” I bring up, ‘cause if it’s bail money, I can probably ask… ask who?   

It doesn’t matter. The cop doesn’t answer. Fuck you too, then.

But also, like, isn't this totally sketch? I don’t know if I have friends. Or a family. I don’t even know who the fuck _I_ am. I just—if I think really hard—I just remember bubbles. Why bubbles? Oh, _bubbles_ , drowning, oh fuck—I was on the skyline bridge! It was like twelve at night and the electricians or whatever light it up really romantic, but then some fuckin’ rando shoved me over the railings. Next thing I know, I'm flailing my way down hundreds of feet below, _SPLASH_ , blub, blub, blub, your girl’s a goner.

Oh my Stars (Wait what? Stars? _Stars_ , STARS, who’s censoring me?), do not tell I’m redoing that dying shit again. Okay, so like the old-timey cops have dumped me and scream-o baby into that one lobby. You know, the one with all the dead bodies of women, but they cleared the corpses out. Brightens the place up a little, I guess? Eww, it smells a party did, like, really bad acid in here. Probably 'cause of all that blood on the carpet. The floors. The walls. That full-course meal plus dessert—I mean, that man.

Ever dreamed of a guy who’s dreamier than dreamy yet who’s also crazier than the crazy you’ll ever be? Yeah, enter some really hot asshole. Who’s also, like, wearing what I’m guessing is the equivalent of his comfiest couture bathrobe and matching slip-ons. Murder like it’s the new, hip leisure hobby. I know. You’re thinking, _So, like, how’d you know Some Really Hot Asshole did some really not-so-hot murdering?_ Evidence, my dear, evidence that is a sharp scarlet and is also soaking the front of his robe de chambre like he’d just stepped out of a vampiric shower.

_Oh fuck, he’s talking._

“Your insufficient explanation?” he drawls, towering over me because he can. Asshole, but I’m down.

Explanation? Explain, like, myself? _Think, bitch, think._ I can feel his glare boring a sword-sized hole in my head. I don’t know what he wants to hear, so I guess I’ll tell him the opposite. “I-I don’t—I can’t explain myself be-because I don’t have a-an explanation.” It’s true, but off, like my brain paused on whatever was supposed to transfer to my tongue. So I stall for time. “I’m sorry, but like, I don’t know if there’s anything worth saying—” _Stars, I’ve got it_ , “—to Your Imperial Majesty. Emperor of the Great Obelia,” I address and I realize.

Did not know this at all, but. Some emperors are batshit craziest. I’m _so_ honored to meet with the craziest of them all.

I’m thinking all this, but then the emperor moves ever so slightly, like a forward flick of his wrist, and before I know what I’m doing—something sharp slices into the my shoulder. Pain, a shitty shipload of pain, but baby screams-a-lot is safely clutched to my chest. It’s my shoulder that starts a shitty feeling, like my shoulder can drop mouth and scream. _Oh my Stars._ I’ve cut my finger while chopping with a kitchen knife but with an actual blade of an actual sword?

This shit _hurted_.

I’ve seen enough blood from last night. Seeing my own was dizzying, vomit-inducing, but I can’t pass out in front of him. My teeth chatter together out of an intolerance for pain and overload of fear. I’m pretty much falling apart by my shoulder seams. But I can’t, I refuse to. I force my pieces to pull together, long enough to gasp and beg, “Stars, please, please don’t do this.” _Owwww, this hurts like a biiiiiitch._ “Your Imperial Majesty can’t do this without knowing who she is,” I tell him boldly as though I’ve got some right.

Like I thought, bossing him around isn’t the best of decisions. Stirred on by my brilliant response, the emperor reaches his hand out to my bowed head, to fist my bird’s nest of hair, drags my head back on my neck to meet his eyes, and I can only think, _‘Yep, I’m fine with dying_ ’ just because his eyes were like—like his irises were replaced with two, multi-faceted orbs of straight-up sapphires.

_Mad pretty._

Then he opens his mouth. “Why would I waste my attention on the useless?”

 _Because she’s_ your _child, Your Imperial Pissant!_

I freeze. I almost want to laugh. I don’t believe I even thought that. How am I supposed to know he tried to end his own daughter? Wait, is _this_ baby daddy? Is he trying to skimp on child support? That’s low _,_ babes _,_ and I’ve hit rock-bottom. When we’re this close, I’d like to spit on his perfectly perfect psychopath’s face. Not the smartest of moves so I gasp and insinuate, “She might be useless, but she is the emperor’s useless daughter.” A corner of his mouth twitches, which is probably his cops’ cue to skewer me. They don’t, however, maybe ‘cause he’s staring at the baby. “Your Imperial Majesty doesn’t know her name,” I point out, which is pretty depressing, “She deserves at least that much.” It hurts, but I lift back the cloth covering his daughter’s face.

My bad to whomever drastically mistakened to entrust this to me, but I tried. Not really, but an effort is better than no effort, right? Though does that really matter if we’re both gonna die?

The psycho emperor’s gaze remains for the longest of blood-curdling moments before he releases my hair, causing my head to _whomp_ onto the tiled floor. Ouch. A concussion and a laceration. Now this must be living life. “You will be guiding her on her departure,” he says in a way that sounds like a question, but it really isn’t. I can’t bring myself to reply. He sweeps his bloodied robes around one arm and continues to glower down at me and his daughter. “Her name, witch,” he seethes.

Witch? Does he mean bit—wait, no, no, is that who I am? Seeing that I remember nothing about potions or broomsticks, might not be. Also, is there a spell where I can instantly recall this baby’s name?

 _Fuck._ “Now, Your Imperial Majesty is free to do whatever Your Imperial Heart desires, including but not limited to take my exact word on this but.” I feel like laughing for some blasted reason. That or else I’m pissing myself. Instead, I give a little pause for dramatic effect and a tentative stab of my own. “Her name is… A-Anastasia?”

My blood still coats his blade as ruby-red droplets splatter upon the baby blankets. The emperor swings his sword up, up, over her head. Execution style. _Fuck, what am I doing?_ Even though he’s the one holding the weapon, her life is in my hands, and I’ve heard her name before—I know it, I’m sure of it, what the fuck was it, Ana, Ada, Atha—

_You can’t do anything right, can you?_

Pain explodes once more, but this time with a vengeance. _How am I still alive?_ There’s really not enough expletives in the world to cover being stabbed with sword. I’ve put myself between him and her again— _holy shit_ —I can't let him do this to her, but there's nothing else I can do. I’m hurting all over, but not for obvious reasons. All I allow myself to feel is downright shitty, all because I can’t even allow this one tiny baby to die with an ounce of dignity. I can't do anything. I don’t move myself from shielding over her. _I don’t want to._ Stars, I’m crying now, shamelessly, ironically, like a baby. “I’m sorry,” I apologize, my chest squeezing something heavy like it’s sobbing too. “You’re meant to live, Athanasia. I’m so sorry.”

My words stop still on my tongue. That's… _new,_ I think. I’m not familiar with saying sorry. It’s different—a good different if I had to categorize—that I can apologize in this life, however pathetically short it is.

But then I barely hear him say, “Amusing.” A _whoosh_ of a sound, like the sweeping of robes again. Coming over to end her then me, or vice versa. Took the bastard long enough. “I wonder how long this thing can live in accordance to its name,” he speaks before he turns on his heel, along with his guards.

Nuh-uh. This gotta be a trap. I wait until I hear nothing but the baby’s breathing. Breathing? Actually, I’m breathing too, but it hurts like hell. The air isn’t as acidly stuffy, so I swallow down huge gulpfuls, before collapsing beside Athanasia.

Somehow, she’s fallen asleep. Now that she’s quiet, I like her a lot more. Still, a baby rat. Tired, I reach up a gross pale finger to tap her chubby cheek. _Whoa_. They call it baby soft skin for a reason. Athanasia reacts to my touch, her little fists swinging, before her fingers open like peony petals, and close around my finger. She’s sleeping still but she gives me a gummy smile, finally, like she knew she’s destined to live.

Lucky her. I feel like dying. I can literally feel my blood pooling underneath me. It’s becoming colder, darker, my senses are subdued as it feels like nothing at all. And, because it’s been one hell of a day, I give into the nothingness.

❂ ❂ ❂

_If this is supposed to be a dream, then it’s not mine._

_I am going to die. I’ve already witnessed the deaths of the other concubines, writhing, wailing, weeping. Their deaths have taught me I will not leave this world as they have. I will not give him the satisfaction of ending my life as he’d stolen everything else I’ve ever held dear to me._

_My head is held high as I am forced to kneel before him. My head is forced down, my matted hair fisted and thrusted toward the floor. I have already put up my fight thus they bound my wrists at the small of my back. They cannot stop me from relaxing into the animosity that powers my silent rebellion. I won’t go down the way he wants, I refuse to, I abhor the path the others have taken, to reason with level heads, to implore for their lives, to scream and cry ineffectual tears, for he has no logic, no sympathy, no empathy, and above all, no heart, nothing, nothing, nothing_ —

_“Leave forthright, witch,” he drawls, and his sword rises, dripping blood in its wake._

_Witch... It’s always been ‘witch’ to him. For a woman with no hand for magic, I want to laugh. I bare my teeth into a smile. “Then this witch will leave with you a gift,” I crowed, and in the last throes of my stolen life, he finally amuses me. “From the depths of my detestment, I place unto you my curse.” To no patience, he swipes his sword a clean warning across my smiling countenance. Bloods seeps down, emphasizing my expression to be ever more enlivened. I laugh in the face of him! With my voice as violent as the scarlet sword in his hand, I dare to tell him, “I accurse you with your own ending, an ending where you commit the cruelest crime, the crime of deplorable bounds that even which Diana will never find heart to forgive the likes of_ — _”_

_The second time around, his sword finds my heart and that of success. Blood peeks up my throat, mingles with the blood across my face. I pursue my efforts to laugh, laugh then, laugh now to the growing hatred to the slowed pulse of my heart, even to my end._

_If this is my ending, then do not let it become_ yours _._

❂ ❂ ❂

Stars. Oww. Why am I waking up in pain?

I want to open my eyes but I can’t. Too much hurt. My brain hurts, especially in the remembering department. No, I do not want the memos on my memories. My mouth feels fuzzy like moss is growing there. Oh, gross. Yeah, I’m so not waking up. Exhaustion still brands into my bones. _I’m so... burnt out._

I turn over and I expect my shoulders to roar with refusal, but they only murmur and ache.

❂ ❂ ❂

I'm awake. It’s warm, comfy, and smells amazing, like laundry right out of the dryer. I can open my eyes this time. Dawn’s light falls upon my plain blankets, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t given birth. I better have _not_. Stars, I’m thirsty. The moss in my mouth never left. I turn over and see there’s a ceramic sky-painted jug and matching cup on the bedside table. I help myself to rinsing my mouth clean before downing the rest of the water. I’m no longer thirsty, but I still feel like all the strength in my body left long ago.

Still, I make an effort to peel back my blankets and step outside of bed. My bare feet touch sheepskin rugs. Aren’t these snazzy? My legs feel like pudding, so I’m guessing I haven’t been walking much. I feel like I’ve slept for centuries. With that in mind, I carefully grasp both hands onto the bedside table, bracing all my weight against it. Okay, we're good. Then I try challenging the less stable walls as I make my way out of the room. It’s quiet inside my room, so I fumble out onto the hallway and I realize I haven’t died a second time.

Because this is the exact same hallway as before. When a certain someone was hunting down damsels in distress for sport, or—I don’t know—whatever psychopathic emperors do in their spare time. Perhaps because the realizations terrorize me that much, I misplace my next step and curse aloud as my balance is thrown off.

As I’m falling, it does remind of something—dying for the first time. The bridge, right? But then in the darkness of the night, there was light, shimmering over the waves below. Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t lean over; rather I reached into my handbag when I was suddenly shoved over the side. As I was falling, I glimpsed the borrowed book fluttering from my bag. _Lovely Princess_ , which I binge-read the night before.

I can’t seem to remember anything else.

“Oh, dear.” I would’ve ran out the nearest window if the emperor doesn’t say stuff like ‘oh, dear’ or anything at all. He’s the type to walk on by, glare a little, stab a lot. “Lady Forsythia, would you like some assistance?” A young maid crouches down to the floor where I’ve given up to stand on my own.

“Yeah, that’d be fuckin—wait.” My head snaps to meet her pretty ocean-blue eyes and I accept her offered hand. Ooh, which hand creamer does she use? “Wait, what, like—What’d you call me?” I ask her in a muddled mumble.

“Lady Forsythia?” she repeats, just as confused.

I wait for the much-awaited flood of memories to pool into my brain, but there’s nothing. Like, absolutely nothing. Maybe because that’s not who I am? I’m about to tell this maid I’m not this Forsythia bitch or whomever, but then I catch a glimpse of myself from a hallway mirror.

At once, I’m on my feet and the pretty maid hovers over me, saying stuff a mother would say to her kid who just got out of a coma. Not that I would know that. What the fuck do I know? Who is this bitch in the mirror? Forsythia? I don’t recognize her at all. She’s, like, totally attractive (on ancient standards and mine, I suppose) with double-lidded violet eyes, porcelain smooth skin, black-as-midnight hair, and these lips can’t be naturally rosy red. I’d be jealous to hell and back of this beautiful bitch if I wasn’t this bitch.

Hmm. I try her out, just a bit of posing with hip out, throw in a cute lil’ finger heart, twirl around back and forth. Kinda hard to do in this ninth-century Asian-like robes, but overall? Might not be so bad being Forsythia.

When I return my attention to the maid, I’m a bit woozy then, and she leads me back to my room. “Are you alright?” I nod with a hand to my head. _Spare some ibuprofen?_ “You’re finally awake after quite a while. How are you feeling?”

“Crappy,” I say, censoring for a stronger term.

She touches her lower lip in apprehension. “Pardon me?”

I don’t know how else to tell her getting taken down by a literal sword is the worst shit ever. At least my wounds are pretty tame, aside from an odd pain if I move around too much. I’m a bit more careful anyway when I clench her hand as I attempt to stand mostly by myself.

The maid watches me anxiously and tells me, “I’m afraid I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Lillian York, the Obelian Princess’s head caretaker.”

My hand all too comfortably around her shoulder, I straighten my own, striking a sword into my poor shoulder nerves. _Oww_. Wheezing almost, I question her through a strangled voice, “Princess? Where? Where’s the kid?”

Lillian perks up. “I’ll be more than happy to show you.”

Guiding me by hand like I’m her walking-corpse of a grandmother, she takes me down the hall, past an elaborate teatime parlor, and then into this massive master room. Gilded gold climbs the room's edges, detailed oil paintings cover every inch of the walls, large windows filter all the sunlight, the works. But there’s not much furniture except a sitting table area and a few chairs near the walls. Near an alcove window is a self-rocking, lace-explosion bassinet. Within is the baby I’ve hardly managed to save, thanks to my feminine wiles and not giving up at the last minute. My memory is impeccable, of course.

After checking in on the princess, Lillian lifts her gingerly into her arms and tilts the baby toward me. “Say good morn, Athy,” she says. Athanasia is all peachy-pink and blinks up with straight-up sapphire eyes. Fear grounds me for a second before I force myself to awkwardly wave back. “Would you like to hold her?” Lillian offers out of courtesy.

But I’ve more than clocked in my hours for that. “Nah, I’m good,” I instantly reply. Lilly's face of bemusement tells me I might as well be speaking another language. “No, it feels as though I haven’t regained my strength just yet,” I clarify in the most formal of boring undertones.

The switch is a success. Lillian gasps and palms my shoulder, the one that was almost sliced apart. Not to be confused with the one that was stabbed in the back, _litcherally_. “Oh, yes, how did the healing fare for you?” Shrugging isn’t age-appropriate as well, so I give her a strained smile. “You were found in such a pitiful condition. You appear to be in a more spirited state, however?”

“As spirited as anyone else at that matter, thank you,” I joke (I think), and I feel like slitting my own throat. I can’t stand talking like a plague-ridden cabbage farmer. “By the way, what the he—what happened?”

Bright-eyed, Lillian sweeps her free arm toward the teatime room. She’s smiling all the while. “If it’s to be a long chat, then it must be accompanied with tea,” she replies, and I can’t help hoping she’ll spike my cuppa with something good. _Adult_ , for my own good.

❂ ❂ ❂

 _Holy fuck_.

Remember how I died? Well, I remember. Most, some of it. So I fell off the bridge (‘cause some dickwad _shoved_ me), and my bag fell with me, right? Remember that book fell out?  It’s not mine, but it was called _Lovely Princess_ . Yeah, so about that, there’s a bit of _Lovely Princess_ events that matches with what Lilly’s telling me. How I remember the events in fuckin’ fiction, but not my own fuckin’ name, I _will_ strangle whoever set me up this way.

Anyway, Lilly’s filled me in and I’m still trying to absorb all this like some kinda defective sponge, but take them as you will: Emperor Some Kinda Psychopathic Asshole “saved” this empire from his dad, Emperor Senior, and also killed his older brother for the throne. Pretty predictable. _But_ Lady Forsythia—or Thia, call _me_ Thia—is the last surviving concubine to Emperor Junior’s Ruby Harem. Thanks to him, they died like ants under a magnifying glass. Honestly, a slight less graceful than my last death. At the same time, Princess Athanasia de Alger Obelia is living and breathing as Emperor the III’s only heir. But, like, does it matter if the princess is destined to die by the hands of her own shitty father?

So _this_ is where it all correlates with _Lovely Princess_ . If I’m recalling this stupid plot correctly, Princess Athanasia was executed by the emperor ‘cause she was framed for poisoning, and it’s so long, I don’t care for it. But I do care about getting out of here. That’s the priority. _Lovely Princess_ can go fuck itself. If the emperor wants to murder his own daughter, he can have last place for Father-of-the-Year. I won’t be here. If I’m thinking positively, I'll be living my best (second) life, and not stressing gray hairs over the constant possibility I’m to be murdered too.

For some reason, he's apparently ‘allowed’ both Athanasia and me to reside within the Ruby Palace. The site of all his harem murders, yeah. All the blood appears to be bleached out, though there are still evidence of concubines fighting for their lives here and there. I don’t try to dwell on that too much. I’ve found refuge in Forsythia’s original bedroom, which is the room I’ve awoken in. Pretty exotic set-up for the emperor’s most hated concubine. How do I know that? I’ve gotten my fill of Ruby Harem drama from reading her journals. Which, isn’t technically invading her privacy, since I am Forsythia, but honestly, I can’t be her.

She’s from a country called Quowen. No memories there. I don’t know where or what that is. But I do know I’m going to be heading there soon enough, for some real refuge. How will I do that? That’s still a work-in-progress.

That exact process involves me chewing on my thumbnail. My other hand is preoccupied with a glass of princess-pink wine, even though wine is garbage alcohol. Nevertheless, the intoxication is integral to, like, thinking. It’s this blasted afternoon. The sun is annoyingly bright, the cloudless sky is annoyingly blue, the birds are annoyingly chirpy. Stars, today is a follow-up to the hellish first. But Lilly says it’s perfect weather for the princess to experience ‘the outdoors’ with the Ruby Gardens. I guess she’s right? I don’t know anything about babies to argue with her. She knows everything about babies, which is totally freaky, and all I know is that Athanasia is four-months-old, and I know that because Lilly is on top of Athanasia’s baby book.

Oh, speaking of books, Lilly reads literally _everything_ to Athanasia. I mean, I know there’s a library and everything in the Ruby Palace (I’ve ‘borrowed’ a few about Quowen, the most useful detailing a step-by-step on Quowen hairstyles), but I thought she was joking when she promised she’ll read every single library book before Athanasia turns five. Not only that, like right now, Lilly is reading some old-ass, Obelian story about some even older magician. Which I also thought would be fine for a bedtime story, but no— _this is history._

“The Sorcerer of the Tower,” reads Lilly to thumb-sucking Athanasia, “had the strongest power among all the sorcerers in existence.” Like I said, magic is a real thing in Obelia although I can’t use any of it (which I don’t really need any, but life said fuck me in particular, huh?). “The Sorcerer of the Tower was so powerful, he could easily bring an empire to ruins. And for that reason, they freeze their own hearts.”  

I don’t really wanna give the impression I listen a lot, but I blurt, “That sounds so stupid. Why?”

Lilly gives me a smiley, all-knowing look as Athanasia bats her tiny fist upon Lilly’s sleeve. “Because such powers could be used for trivial things if passion overcame reason and emotion overcame rationality,” she answers calmly. _So what?_ Sometimes, letting anger or whatever get the best of you can do better than worse. Or, that must be my past motto. And then I died. Okay, but Lilly doesn’t know. “There are theories that the Sorcerer from the Tower destroyed the kingdom before our Obelian Empire,” Lilly adds but it’s all _blah-blah-blah_ to me.

The sun is beating down stronger now, so I’m made to stand when a sudden breeze whips throughout our picnic. I grip the parasol from flying away, but Lilly loses her spot in the book. A good ten or twenty pages flip through before Athanasia whams her fists down, onto a royal portrait. My gut reaction is to dry-heave into the nearest rose bushes. Athanasia’s is to gurgle with newfound energy, even running her palm over his annoyingly youthful face.

But Lilly finds this adorable. “Oh my, do you recognize who he is, Athy?” she exclaims.

 _Of course she does._ “Asshole. Chauvinistic pig. Actually, those sloppy crap you feed to the sows,” I answer for the princess. When Lilly gives me a chastising look, I sip my wine to the side. _Ugh, I hate_. Why hasn’t whiskey or vodka been invented yet? Athanasia appears unbothered so I swivel back, wiggle her tiny fists, and laugh good-naturedly to myself. “Look at that massive sword. Haha. Looks like he’s portraying to compensate for something else rather lacking, isn’t he?” I can’t help poking at his pride, especially and only since he’s not here.

But I’m the only one, it seems. “Lady Thia,” starts Lilly, and I swirl my wine in my glass, glancing to the side, “I’d offer you a word of precaution that he’d have your head for all that you said.”

I roll my eyes, dust my skirts off, and finally stand up. I’ll scorch like a burning witch if I stay here any longer. “He already owns me, so he can have whatever he wants,” I reply. It’s a tame enough response. According to Forsythia’s journal entries, I’m kinda underestimating how much she totally hates and wanna disembowel his guts then dance merrily upon them. Her words, not mine. “I’m gonna take a walk around the grounds,” I inform her of my next fifteen minutes.

But then Athanasia reaches for me. _Nuh-uh_. It’s clear that Lilly is the mother she’s never had.

“I’ll be back, darling,” I lie, hoping that’s enough for get this baby to, like, believe me. Athanasia babbles back in baby and leans more into my direction. Lilly isn’t offended at all. _Stars hate me._ Big blue eyes aren’t exactly my downfall, but I hold her for, like, the fourth time in four months. “There. That’s far enough, isn’t it?” I say tightly and hand Athanasia toward Lilly.

But for some reason, she’s sold. “Oh, this is perfect, Lady Thia,” Lilly starts to say something I’m gonna hate, “if Athy could accompany your walk around the gardens. That would be most wonderful, would it not?”

 _No, no, hell no._ “A _most_ wonderful idea,” I repeat through gritted teeth and hitch this child higher onto my hip. If she’s spitting up on me on any point of this walk, I _will_ ditch her into the bushes. “I’ll take her around then. We’ll be back!” I tell her with no promise of when that’ll be.

Well, whatever. I only regained my strength a couple days ago so I haven’t explored much. Like I never noticed this fountain before. Wow. It’s not exactly PG with statues of what I suppose are braless concubines, and I'm loving the provocative look, but what will Athanasia think? Oh, right, she’s zero, she doesn’t think. Taking a seat, I peer into the fountain’s gentle reflection, I kinda get what Narcissus was, like, thinking.

Forsythia is pretty as fuck, thanks to me, Thia. Today, I’ve dolled her up by pinning up her long, lavious hair into Quowen-style loopy locks and painted her face with the deceased’s leftover makeup (c’mon, like they’re gonna use it) from the same Quowen hairstyle lookbook. As the red cherry on top, I’ve donned her in Quowen goldfish-embroidered robes, which are also probably made out of clouds and just super pretty in themselves. I don’t know why _Lovely Princess_ never mentioned Quowen, like, they’re super fab.

Now that I think about it, there’s a couple of not-correlations though. For one thing, Quowen was never mentioned in the book and, like, Forsythia wasn’t either. None of the concubines had names, if you don’t count Diana. Who, from the records of Forsythia, was pretty much worshipped by Forsythia, she loved her that much. The emperor, we don’t talk about him. Kinda weird Athanasia doesn’t seem to inherit any of the crazy. Thank Stars she's pretty much snuggled into my shoulder. Lilly did tell me babies liked being held best.

Hey, now that I’m alone, I can plan my escape route. The library offered no secret maps or blueprints so I don’t even know where I am. I’m trying to keep this away from Lilly in case she reports back to you-know-who, but it’d nice to ask someone. My current plan is total shit as I have apparently walked out of the garden and into a forest. Fuck. I’d go back if I knew where back is. But surrounding me are trees and more trees. Nature is the worst. I walk forward and just keep on walking, even though Athanasia is becoming restless now.

That’s my explanation for however could I be lost on another palace with golden cupids lying about, and I still have no idea how I got here.

“Oh, shit,” I grumble to myself, rocking the fussy Athanasia with everything I’ve got (which is not much; I’m sweaty, I’m lost, I’m tired). “How many palaces are around here? Maybe it’s just one big property of palaces? That’s extra. Then I’ll never get—”

Athanasia suddenly emits this vulture-worthy screech of being around me this long, and it’s so sudden that I scramble backwards, right into the cupid statues. I almost give high-pitched shriek as the statues began to fall like dominoes, but thankfully Forsythia works out, so I impulsively lunge for the last golden angel. I succeed but barely enough to hold it up with all my body’s strength, plus baby Athanasia. _Do you have to be here???_

“Pardon?”

It’s one of the cops. Or guards, I guess. A redhead who I would be deathly afraid of, but he’s kind  a cutie with a rumple of red hair. He’s smiling at Athanasia. She’s cooing like we never trekked through that blasted forest. For some reason, he takes a step toward my pathetic state and says in a pleasant voice, “Would My Lady like a hand with that?” He points to the tons of golden statues lopsidedly balancing against each other. But mostly against me.

As regal as the emperor’s surviving concubine can be, I wheeze like an asthmatic patient, “Puh-pl-please.”

Very, very easily, he stands beside me, splays a gentle hand on the cupid’s curly head, and tilts the whole thing straight. _Voila!_ The domino effect is reversed, the cupids are balanced upright, and Athanasia is back-down on the grass as I’m bent down with my hands on my knees, panting and puffing like a domesticated dog in a desert.  All the while, the cop-guard glances back at nature’s layer of hell, then says in an educated voice, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you and the princess alright?”

With the princess back in tow, I answer him, “Yes, um…?”

“Felix Robane at your service.” He smiles still and I wanna pat his bedhead out of gratitude.

“Sir Robane,” I decide to go with, and he sweeps into a regal bow. “ _Hi_. I suppose you’re aware with who I am… Um. It’s simply Thia. Thank you for—for this.” Like it wasn’t a huge, heavy issue, I wave a hand back at the statues that almost shattered my spine in half. “I apologize for my uninvited intrusion; however, I haven’t a clue where—”

Like a godsend, he cuts in, “I can escort the two of you to the Ruby Palace.”

 _I love you, Felix. Can I call you Felix? I love you so much._ “Oh, that’s much too generous, Sir Robane,” I gasp, and though talking like this is a chore, modesty is always the greatest virtue alive. “I’m certain if you head me in the right direction—”

“It’s no matter. I’m instructed to escort you back after your meeting.”

“Instructed? _Meeting?_ ” I repeat back to him.

With a practiced imitation I’ve seen before, his dark cape flutters behind him when he turns away from me. “Follow me, Lady Thia.” When I don’t move at all, Felix takes a gentle hold on my trembling upper arm and sends a winsome grin toward Athanasia. _Don't you dare._ “I'm afraid His Imperial Majesty doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he tells me with a gloved hand brushing my ear.

 _No, no, no, no, nooooo, NOOOOOOO_ —

Against my will, Athanasia and I are escorted into the palace’s garden which is one of the most picturesque gardens I’ve ever seen. (That doesn’t count for a lot when I can't remember anything) Smells amazing too. It’s like a scent museum in here, like if I can close my eyes, it’s no difference than standing within a perfume emporium. It honestly feels more like a flower maze as Felix rounds around hedged shrubbery and blossoming bushes. Marble monuments are spotted throughout and ivy trellises climb along the statues and fences. The flowers though? I don’t recognize a whole bunch besides the obvious roses, but I think it’s within the pastel sprawl of peonies that a tea table is extravagantly set. There’s an empty chair, cups and sugars for actual tea, and a sprawling lounge across from the chair. Take a stab (perhaps, literally there) who sits across from my seat?

The last time we met, I never really took my chances to look at him. But as of right now? He's blinding in a way, in this light, as he sits languorously on the lounge with one leg crossed over the other, his glimmering, glazed glare not upon me just yet. All I can think about in this nature’s layer of picturesque paradise is _imminent death_. “Blessings and glory upon the Obelian Empire. The arrivees are Lady Forysthia of Your Imperial Majesty’s Harem and Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Athanasia de Alger Obelia.” When Felix stops several feet away, he nudges me and Athanasia forward and announces to us, “Make your introductions toward the only sun of the great Obelia, Emperor Claude de Alger Obelia.

❂ ❂ ❂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so first chapter down! this is the narrative style that will be continuing throughout the rest of the story, im afraid to say lol. and this is our "main" mc forsythia or just simply thia :) i try to write her different (obviously lol) from other isekai protags so yaaa ????? ofc we gotta have lillian & felix so they're making their appearances already :))) also athanasia is definitely and deeply intertwined with this plot line as i want the original athanasia to be happy & this is my way going through with it ;) if claude will be there for that ending, you'll have to read on & see ;D thank u for reading~


	3. karma's a bitch

On the bright side, this can’t turn out any more of a total nightmare. 

Where I’m supposed to be is some sorta secretive pathway that takes me straight outta Obelia. Like a highway outta hell. Instead, fate mockingly plonked me right in front of the one demon I’m trying to avoid, and I’ve waltzed right in with his infant child. Like, bitch what? What am I supposed to do now? Unfortunately, I can’t run for it (Felix stops me easily, returns us to Claude, we die) and I can’t excuse myself (either by an ask or suggestion, Claude’s super-ego is somehow offended, we die); therefore I survive by doing what I’m told.

After a lightning-quick bob and bow, I begrudgingly take the seat before Claude. He doesn’t react. It’s probably not any different than being alone. It’s just another day for an emperor to force his only fabulous af concubine plus his infant princess to a round of crumpets and tea. Babies don’t even drink tea (I know this because Lilly told me so and Lilly knows everything). 

“A warmed bottle for Her Imperial Highness?” 

Flinching, I look up into a maid’s eager expression and demand, “Where’d you spawn from?”

But she ignores me for Princess Athanasia who babbles bubbly in presence of a Lilly-alike (and Lilly told me infants have stranger danger). “Just a moment, Your Imperial Highness,” she says before heading away to the trunk of the tallest tree ever. Several maids cluster there, wordlessly piling glossy plates and teacups that reflect leaf-filtered sunlight, before the maid returns with a fresh bottle. 

I snatch and pop that right into Athanasia’s sucker. She must’ve been dying in that forest, so it's no surprise that she’s greedily guzzling it down. The same maid wordlessly pours me some nasty-ass tea. _Ughhh_. Forget the tea, I want the wine. 

Actually, vodka has to be invented by now, right? Isn’t vodka as historically old as grape wine? It has to be, and I’d ask the maid if she didn’t disappear on me. I mean, I could ask Claude, but. He hasn’t moved at all, not one bared muscle.  I’m free to look at him, which I totally am, staring straight at his godlike, godless face. I’d like to go on a spiel of how no deity could ever exist to create such a perfectly attractive—but also perfectly psychotic—mortal man, but I’ll save the trouble. He’s just sitting there, in the vast shade of this maid-base tree, and surveying the surface ripples of his amber tea, all calmed and full of languid peace. 

_Fuckin’ weirdo._

What’s so special about this anyway? As I prop Athanasia against my chest, I use one hand to have a go at my cuppa. It’s still lukewarm from… from whatever they use to boil tea. Fire? Fire magic? Anyway, this cup isn’t too shabby, I guess. Green tea, black tea, white tea, it’s all gross and bitter and nasty, but this follows with a sweet aftertaste. Like, like fruit-flavored vodka. _I miss you, Grey Goose La Piore._

“Do you fear me?” Claude suddenly asks. 

My eyebrows raise, but I keep my mouth shut and my shoulders stiffened straight. Sensing the stress all over me, Athanasia meets my gaze, my terrified stare reflecting in her multi-faceted eyes, and I breathe out a slow exhale. I can answer this.

Just need to address a couple things.

Do I fear him? _Hell yes_ is an understatement. But does Forsythia fear him? From her journal entries, it’s clear if she ever had the opportunity, no hesitation, she’d end him. So if Forsythia doesn’t fear him, he knows my answer is no; however, if I answer no, will he kill me? That’s, like, super plausible, considering you kill people when you feel like good ol’ murdering. And considering all of this, how should I answer?

Clueless, I look down to Athanasia. Her bottle is nearly empty, so she’s sucking on the nipple as though that’d refill her drink. I’d call the maid if there was one. If only Lilly was here. She’d be able to survive—wait, she did survive ‘cause she—she’s _Lillian_. I got this. 

“Your Imperial Majesty,” I start with lowered eyes. I bet my lashes look bomb dot com from his view. “Fear is comparatively weak to encompass my sentiments; that much is apparent. However, the word fear changes drastically if the inquiry revolved about our dearest Athanasia,” I say all melodramatic, rivaling an opera heroine, and lovingly raising her to my cheek. Bottle in mouth, Athanasia squirms away from me. “Her life is small, yet sparkling as bright as the sapphires in her eyes, and it flickers upon the palm of one, of Your Imperial Majesty.” Done with that, I glance into Claude’s probable driven-to-tears expression. 

I see that he’s looking straight at me, and he has his free hand extended, palm up. Behind him, Felix is walking toward us with his sword out, the hold-y part toward Claude. 

“ _The—There's more_ _!_ ” I blurt and bump forward, rattling the tea set around. “If I may speak so boldly?” I start again, less than prepared, and Claude accepts the sword from Felix, stabs it into the grass below. As his fingers wrap around the twined hold-y bit, his index begins a slow tap. _Stars help me now._ “Mayhaps, I fear for what Your Imperial Majesty chooses to do with Athanasia’s life,” I say and, under the table, pinch her leg fat. Athy knows how to cry since Lilly says it’s the only way babies communicate so communicate _this_. “If I’m to guard her departure, I think it’s fair to say I do fear whatever may happen to Athanasia happens to me.” As to end my point, Athanasia tearlessly swats my fingers away only to bang her fists against the table.

With a strained smile, I restrain her hands in her lap. Somewhere in the treetops above us, a canary or something is singing my farewell forever song. Claude finally parts his lips and replies like it’s a favor to me, “It is as I thought, witch.” He pauses as to say _Think about it_. But does it look like I think? “That thing means nothing to you as a result of your ill-considered idolization toward that wench,” he says with his hand off his sword, but he hardly holds up his head up with one beautiful finger. 

How aggravating is this? Can he speak any more riddle-ish? I mean, he did call Athanasia ‘that thing’ that first time. But ‘that wench’ isn’t as obvious. Ughhh. ‘ _Ill-considered idolization’_ , like, shut the fuck up and make conversation with your head outta your ass. 

Suddenly, pudgy fingers press onto my sleeves. I’d love to ignore Athanasia but she’s whiny, clingy almost, as she rubs her peachy-pink face onto my collar. Normally, I’d push her away (payback’s a bitch!), but Claude’s right there so I gotta bring her up. Warmth plasters to my neck as she breathes on me. It’s disgusting, but I’m generous, so I rub her back in a gentle motion Lilly taught me. She sniffles comfortably. Now, let’s see if I can change his mind. “Perhaps I am too concerned with myself and what I have to do to live. However, Athanasia means more to me than she does to you,” I reply just as stonily. And then I meet his gaze—no, nope, he’s glaring. 

 _Oh no_ . I said you, just _you_. His grip tightens around his sword, like he’s holding my racing heart in my hand.

Both arms trembling around Athanasia, I shrink back as he uproots the sword, swings it around his wrist, so that it faces toward Felix. Unblinking, Claude stares straight at me as he orders Felix around, “Get rid of the Ruby nursemaids aside from the head.” Wordlessly, Felix nods, retrieves the sword back into the sword-holder thingy, and steps back to his post.

No way _._ Something tells me I should keep my mouth zipped, locked, and the key thrown away.

A light breeze intrudes through our tea time. Carnation petals delicately travel around us, several finding sanctuary in my loop-de-loop hair, a few scatter like freckles across Athanasia’s snoozing face, and one finds an unfortunate end upon his teacup. The audacity! Claude glares at it before he slams his cup down and stands to his full height. Oh my _Stars_. Wait, hold up! I haven’t lost completely! But I’m definitely on the scale. He swings his excess robe away from his toned torso, and I can’t help my jaw dropping because I’d do anything, literally anything or any—

“Drastically disappointing, as always,” utters Claude. _Oh_ . I can burn under that scintillating stare. “If I am not your end, then it is your own cursed Quowen blood.” Without another word, there’s a _whoosh_ of a sound before he’s gone. 

Thank the Stars. Felix is saying something but it’s background noise.  I can’t help fanning myself as I direct a glare of my own onto his vacant lounge. Annoying as fuck, sexy as hell, the worst of combinations. I really hope Athanasia won’t inherit any of his crazy, and as I hold her up by the armpits, I say to her dopey, baby face, “Promise me you’ll be the one to end him, alright?” Athanasia blinks her bejewled eyes at me before she parts her rosebud lips and screams.

❂ ❂ ❂

I can’t stand anymore of the screaming. So when I always skimp out on baby-duty (which I’m pretty sure isn’t part of my job description anyway), Lilly finally corners me to watch the little munchkin. A munchkin who can now sit up and scoot around an enclosed room and wail nonstop. Like a speaker-attached Roomba that doesn’t do anything but plays high-pitched screaming. Yes, I _am_ dreading when it’s time for Athanasia and Me. 

My mood sour, I call, “Hey, Lills.” 

She doesn’t look up from packing the picnic basket for Athanasia. Allegedly, our poor Head Maid has to go conduct Head Maid stuff, and poor little me is tasked to oversee the princess’ outside hour. Besides that, Lilly closes the wicker top, and replies, “Yes, Lady Thia?” 

As I wiggle Athanasia’s plump-as-sausages fingers (who’s at about seven months, Lilly forces me to be on top too), I casually ask, “I haven’t seen, like, what’s their faces. Glasses maid, six feet maid, naturally green-haired maid, whose green hair is super dodgy, but you know that bunch?” She’s quiet but she knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Did something happen? I haven’t seen them around lately.” Which, if you’re thinking, this does relate to that hauntingly mysterious line Claude parted me with. That was months ago yet dead-serious voices continue to haunt me. 

Lilly answers, “I’m glad you’re the one to bring this up.” After she folds a sky-blue blanket into the basket, she stands with the wicker held out to me. “For the past several months, those maids have been shamelessly neglecting their duties as Athanasia’s caretakers, in addition to purloining golden ornaments around the Ruby Palace.” 

Oh damn, Ruby drama already? Why hadn’t Claude mentioned this sooner? “How outrageous of them,” I gasp and take the basket, also taking the chance to lean in. “They’ve gone to such lengths that even reached the ears of the emperor?”

“Indeed,” she says and dusts off her skirts. “Because of our lack of staff, I would very much appreciate if you, Lady Thia, can also provide the care and attention that the princess would appreciate just as well.” 

Sure she would. Unfortunately, Athanasia only has Lilly and me, and we owe it all to Claude. Thanks for murdering a bunch of shitty maids, like, uhh. I could think about the implications but I don’t want to. Baby in one arm, basket in the other, I’d like to salute her as my superior officer but Lilly beams at me. Might be just me, but her smile is kinda, sorta daunting. Rather than stay to find out why, I turn on my slippered heel with Athanasia yanking on my sleeve the entire way. 

Ideally, Lilly says the best location for experiencing the ‘outdoors’ would be the gardens. However, Lilly is wrong. The best location is not the gardens, but an attached greenhouse where it’s all paned glass, like, there’s this shadey area underneath wisteria awning, plus other flowers or pint-sized trees or whatever, and the sun isn’t about to murder me via burning me alive. Also, the elderly gardeners around there ramble off horticulture to Athanasia, which means I can get some of my researching done. 

Oh yeah, did I mention I’m reading about Quowen? 

Quowen books are unsurprisingly hard to come by in Obelia. Lilly hooked me up with an Obelian Royal Book-Keeper, who put in request for Quowen history references and it’s super annoying! Apparently, we can’t be teleporting books left and right, so I had to wait _four_ excruciating months just for these heavy scrolls and one Obelian book on Quowen history. I mean, since this is Forsythia’s body, I can read Quowen or whatever, but like, I’m in the mood for some light reading. 

Before I crack open Quowen History 101, I ask the gardeners (several times, as they’re hard of hearing) to put Athanasia down on a picnic blanket I’ve laid down and also some sparkly toys. I also ask them for a chicken fence so she wouldn’t crawl into poisonous bushes or whatever, but they blinked at me and insited on keeping an eye on the princess. _That’s what I thought._

Anyway, I have this book and I skip the first few chapters since Obelian writers are super racist to Quowen. (They even dubbed us ‘lowlifes’ at some point, and I had to be offended.) I’d throw the whole book away if I wasn’t borrowing it. Prickly with irritation, I skip to the last bits where it describes the Quowen-Obelian War. 

Basically, this war or whatever happened recently, like, within the past decade or two? The captains’ names I recognize, namely four, which are Rose, Lotus, Orchid and Magnolia. Or as Forsythia knows the last, her Lia. ‘Cause I’ve been reading Forsythia’s journal (she’s _obsessed_ with journaling), I’ve been caught up with her history, her family for one, and her favorite relative being her full-blooded brother. Full-blooded as in Forsythia has eighteen siblings. Add her, there are nineteen prince and princesses of the Quowen empire. _Nineteen_. So, like, Forsythia’s mom birthed four royal behinds in the order of Magnolia, then me, then Princess Azalea, and lastly baby Prince—

“Pwabhwa!” squeals Athanasia.

A wet hand slaps onto my book, eliciting a shocked shriek from me. Oh shit, the ink is runny. Athanasia doesn’t care. She’s drenched from head to toe, but she’s mostly rosy in her chubby cheeks. Behind her, the gardeners wring their gloved hands together. I mean, I can play the bitchy concubine and yell at them, but they’re old, so I have to yell at them more than once.

As I peel past a waterlogged page, I tell them, “I’ll take over, thank you very much.” I don’t question why she’s drenched from head to toe (that water lily pond looks plenty suspicious though) and plop her wiggly, dripping self onto my perfectly dry lap and angle the book away from her. But to her, a book is a book. She babbles in baby to read to her just like Lilly does.

“Fine,” I assent and follow my finger along the delicately inked words. Better to collect my thoughts aloud, I guess. “Quowen. The four princes. Magnolia is her—my closest brother since the others are brothers from another mother. Literally. Daddy dearest had four wives, can you believe?” Athanasia says something, probably, _That’s so wildt! Tell me more!_ “My dad and his wives are all dead, apparently from old age. That’s super dodgy, but my brothers fought each other to be the emperor. Also, to the death so until one remains. Batshit, isn’t it?” Gurgling, Athanasia runs her hand through my bunched-up skirts. I know all about it, Quowen clothing is superior, and I say, “Magnolia better have won, ‘cause Forsy—I mean, me, I am sooooo done with this sh—” Athanasia grasps the book, flipping past pages, until we land upon a painting.

Oh. Oh, shit. This changes… maybe everything. 

It’s one of those war paintings or something. Something thick, like a sob, bloats my throat. _Focus, Thia, Forsythia, whoever I am_. I blink back heat to see. Four men hung like haunted lanterns from crude wooden posts, their bodies eerily twisting upon ratty rope. Below is a lone figure; a snowstorm throws around his war-torn cape, one that displays the same symbol from Obelian flags. I don’t care about him. Swallowing hard, I fixate on the body by far left. From portait paintings I’ve glimpsed before, Quowen princes wear headbands around their foreheads. In this painting, their headbands hang from their ankles, flapping weakly like white flags. 

Far left, the corpse’s ankle flutters a headband embroidered with a magnolia. 

It’s instant but I fight it back. It wins, hot and heavy, glazing over my sight, marking trails of cosmetic destruction down my cheeks. Fuck, my makeup. Athanasia notices, raises a hand, watches me in morbid interest. It’s strange to her because it’s strange to me. 

Low, even for Athanasia to hear, I say in a stable monotone, “Hey, Forsythia.” Tears still collect, ruining the last of my mascara “I know. It’s… It’s awful. With the man who killed our—your Magnolia. I-I can do this for you, I wil—” I literally don’t know how, but I make my promise, “I’ll carry out your revenge for what he did to Lia. And Quowen too, I guess. Fuck, I’m—you’re crying a lot. Don’t—don’t worry, I’ll make sure what goes around comes around.” Sniffling, I dab a sleeve across my mess of a mourning face and mumble, “Karma’s a bitch, Claude.” 

As I toss that book aside, I pick out a crinkly scroll. It unrolls in heaps, wafting off a scent I’m pretty sure is mothballs. Gross. Apparently, this is about Quowen culture, history, ecterea, which I should’ve already known since Forsythia is Quowen-born. And since Athanasia is born with the attention span of an infant, she whines and thinks she can restart this screaming business. _I think not!_ When I set her back, a golden bell-like ball catches her eye and she goes for it.  

She’s handled. Idly, I hold up my head and continue to read. _Quowen’s magic is known for its influence with ancient spirits that reside over the land, the light and the shadows._ Though if Quowen was all about hairstyles, I’m your girl. _By trifling into a forbidden fusion, the Quowen bloodline upholds their delivered punishment, a curse, in consequence for chasing eternal youth._ Since we’re inside, I went with letting my hair down into a stylish mid-back braid-loop—

Hold up. 

_We who carry the Quowen curse have scratched the surface, only for our groundbreaking experiment to fall beneath our feet. We have grasped the inhumanly youthful appearance we had so desired until our death. As such, Quowen men maintain their youth until they reach the cursed old age of thirty-six to thirty-seven. Quowen women are granted a slight of lenience, reaching thirty-seven to thirty-eight._

Athanasia scoots back to apologize and plops into my lap, and I’m not stopping her. I can’t believe this—this _bullshit_. I read this paragraph, over and over and over again. Each time, the sentences stay the same, keep telling me it’s the same old. 

I’m… gonna die… when I’m thirty-seven-years-old. Or thirty-eight. Okay. Let’s do some, ughh, _math_. I’ve read Forsythia’s journal. An entry mentioning her age was several weeks before the harem massacre. She complained how Claude was wasting away her life when she was only twenty. That was eight months ago. I might be twenty-one for all I know. So thirty-eight… or thirty-seven subtracted or whatever from twenty-one… Um. Seventeen, eighteen if we’re being generous. Wait, isn’t someone else gonna die eighteen years from now?

When I stare hard at Athanasia, who finds it hilarious to bounce on her behind, I realize if Claude wants us together in the long run, Athanasia and I are really in this for the remaining eighteen years of our lives.

❂ ❂ ❂

I… I think I’ve mastered this. Is this what Edison felt like, discovering electricity or whatever? Took me approximately one, two, two-ish years! I think—I think after downing four bottles of old-ass wine, I finally feel somewhere near plastered. Obelian historians _must_ take pen to record this shit. 

“Anthia?” Athy (long story short, Lilly got me on board) calls me. Oh, there’s no summarized story to why Athy has a nickname for me. (It’s ‘cause she smudged up Auntie Thia, hahaha, kids are _stupid._ )

The maid with the mauve braid pipes up, “Lady Thia, must you be drinking at this time of night?” That’s… Hollie. I ignore Hollie. On Athy’s left is Hana, a bobbed redhead, who is rereading one of Athy’s bedtime books on the floor. We’re in Athy’s master bedchamber, bundled near the roaring fireplace, while Lilly is elsewhere, preparing Athy’s nighttime milk. Or something. The fire burns bright, so bright I wanna light something up and take a nice, long drag. 

Hana closes the book and tells me, “Lady Thia, I believe it’s your turn to read to the princess.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I yawn and slink onto the floor. Earlier, Hollie and Hana dumped Athy’s thickest blanket and masses of goosefeather pillows onto the carpet. Sleepier now, I ask, “What should I read?” Eying the stack of books near Hana, I down the rest of my wine glass. Hollie glares at me and I shove my empty glass onto her chest. Hah, _washboard_. 

Hana waves at the books and says,“I’m afraid Hollie and I have read the entirety of this collection, at least twice, yet Athy is insistent for a final story.”

“One more! One please, Anthia!” insisted Athy as she scoots closer to me. Sparkly sapphire eyes reflect the dazed look on my face, yet I don’t feel as terrified as I used to be. It’s been, like, two years already. “Anthia,” she starts again in a toddler’s sugar-sweet tone, “I pinky promise one—”

I cut her off with a yawn-mixed mumble, my head lowered to the pillows, and run a hand through my hair. It’s so long. I relate to Rapunzel. She was a princess, right? They don’t have Rapunzel here, or any of the fairytales I somehow remember (still nothing, absolutely _nothing_ on me though) and they especially don’t tell the story of _Lovely Princess_. I look up. Athy, plus H&H, are staring at me like I’m some master storyteller about to blow their minds. Which, since Athanasia is bored, the maids are burned out, and I’ve had my (bottles and bottles of) wine, I’ll humor them.

Stealing a tasseled pillow, I try not to collapse on it comfortably as I say, “I got one. From memory, none of this mess.” I try to topple the books over and miss. Hollie and Hana are unimpressed. But Athy is the most dazzled of the three. It’s super bizarre but she’s super attached to me, neither of which I warranted nor wanted. “No happy ending though,” I forewarn. 

The nursemaids exchange a wary look, but Athy is adamant and declares like the toddler she is, “I’m listening, Anthia!”

Wow, she totally didn’t inherit her personality from her psychopath of a father. Rubbing my flushed cheeks, I start off, “So, like, once upon a time or whateva, there’s a princess. Princess A-Aaaaa-A is for Apple.”

Hana repeats, “Princess Apple?” At her monotone, both Hollie and Athy gives a bubbly giggle. 

Well, I can call her Athanasia and give this story a much darker premonition, but I’m too drunk for that. “Yeah, Apple. She was the fabbest princess around just ‘cause. Not a bad apple, you know?” I laugh but my audience stay silent as crickets. I have an urge to tug my collar ‘cause, geeze, tough crowd tonight. “Apple grew up pretty swanky ‘cause, she’s a princess, duhhhh.” 

“Duhhh,” Athy imitates but I see H&H chiding her with a look. They both think I’m a bad role model (I’m totally a bad role model, but a superb wine aunt).

Besides that, I cover my hand over a wine-flavored burp and continue on. “Apple also grew up a pure-hearted princess or wuteva, and she did not get that from her dad. The empeerrr—king. He’s dreadful, the worst person ever, but Apple wants to be, like, the apple of his eye.” H&H roll their eyes simultaneously as Athy makes an adorable ‘o’ of her lips. “Apple grows up to be the best princess, and she was gonna show everyone up at the official princess party, but Apple gets showed up instead. The drama was, like, _wildt_.” 

Suddenly concerned, Hana cuts in, “Lady Thia, perhaps, your state of insobriety—”

 _Nuh-huh,_ since I started, I can’t be stopped and I almost fall onto Athy as I ramble, “Enter scene for Princess Jea-Jam. Like apple jam! Get it? (Again with the silence) Fine, it’s irrelevant, anyway. Apple learns that Jam is, like, her sister from the same mister. Similar yet different. Okay, babes, listen to this bulls—stuff. Okay?” I offer my palms outward to the princess, and even though H&H are double chiding her with their glares, Athy slips her hands onto mine.

The fireplace crackling behind her, she whispers, “Okay?”

And so I say, _slowly_ ‘cause emotions are thickening my voice, “It’s like… if Apple was a celestial body, she’d be the moon. Bright and pretty in its sad, little way. That makes Jam the sun, all bright and pretty in its annoying, little way. Get me, babes?” Athy doesn’t because she’s three years old, but then from the maids’ expressions, neither does Hollie nor Hana. I barrel on, “Jam is so annoyingly bright, she melts their father’s icy-cold heart with all that toxic UV radiation. And Apple? Well, like one day, Jam gets a big boo-boo, and their father is a total psychopath about it.” Like, Claude is _soooo_ fucking stupid. I mean, yeah, Jam had Claude’s love or whateva, but not once in the novel, did Athy treat her maliciously, much less consider poisoning her. 

A whole arm up as though old-school, Hana interrupts again, “Pardon, but how would one be a ‘psychopath’ over their child’s injury?” Hollie nods, the same question mark in her eyes, as Athy shuffles over to my side and sprawls onto my skirted thigh. 

As I shift my fingers through her strands of golden curlicues, I answer, “Like, by accepting the first accusation thrown around and ordering that accused’s, uhhh. Y’know what kings do to criminals, right?” Surreptitiously, Hollie pulls the back of Hana’s hair and I can’t help a snort. “Jam tried, you know, she wanted to convince their father it’s not Apple. But he doesn’t care. He—” The next words are verbatim from memory, I’m gritting my teeth as Claude is described, “—Their father can’t be underestimated.”

And then he orders her to die. “In the end, he orders Apple to be in cool-down corner _forever,_ and Jams grieves for her sister only to be comforted by her loving husband,” I conclude on that sad ending note. Athy gazes up at me, her sapphire irises rounder than a full moon. The alcohol is fading fast and I feel, like, melancholy maybe, ‘cause after it’s all said and done, Claude is told Athanasia wasn’t the perpetrator, but does it look like he gives a single fu—

Her petite palm near my ear, Athy whispers, “Did Apple die?”

Wow. I find this funny actually. After all that we read, Athy should know what death is (and perhaps that one time we nursed a bunny back to health and once Lilly released it into the wild, a vulture swooped down, and while I could’ve clapped a dainty hand over my mouth a la Lilly style, I chose to blurt, “Oh shit, Cottontail’s _dead._ ”), but it’s still a crazy deep concept, and I don’t want a literal toddler to know how depressing death is. 

That’s why I give her a shrug like I’m not the one who provided tonight’s bedtime tragedy, but H&H appear to be teaming up to scold some sense into me. Might as well finish this off, maraschino cherry on top. Hurriedly, I tell Athy, “The moral of my story is men are bast—stuff and nonsense, especially your own father.” Closer now, I tuck her in with my words warming the shell of her ear, “Sweets, he can’t be melted. His heart is the same shade as an endless pitch-black, the end of an abyss. Never trust your father, babes.” 

Before I can leave for my own quarters, Athy catches the end of my fingers. Above us, H&H are whispering to never allow me on bedtime-story again. “Anthia,” she says and lingers upon my fingertips, “did Jam make their father lotsa happy?” _I guess, but who cares?_ I don’t know why Athy would ask me this but I suppose my soul isn’t akin to an angel adoptee.

“Sure, babes,” I answer and shakily come to a stand. The maids are now sorting through our sleepover mess and rush to Lilly once she strides in with Athy’s milk. “Jam makes their father lots of happy. Undeserved, but as long as everyone is happy, right?”

Athy blinks at me. I’m starting to not, like, lose my shit when I look into her eyes. “I’m happy,” she murmurs with a thoughtful glaze to her eyes, “with Lilly, and with Hana and Hollie, and with you, Anthia.”

I blink at her. _What the hell?_ She’s just a kid, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But she’s three years old, children lie at this age, don’t they? Yeah, if they’re not Athanasia. Oh, fuck. I’m getting a headache over this, I don’t want to think about this. I finally up and escape so I can not head straight to my quarters, but head there later after I’ve raided the wine cellar once more for the night. Then I'm good with blacking out. 

❂ ❂❂

_There’s a rhythmic beeping._

_I don’t know if I had eye surgery or something, ‘cause I can’t open my eyes. Though if I really think, I do remember the bridge, some moron pushing me over the edge, so they can take off with my Hermes Birkin (It's vintage! Vintage!). I almost drowned ‘cause of them. Ugh, I can’t get super pissed ‘cause negative emotions, like, totally fuck up your pores. Annoying! It’s super annoying ‘cause I hear the beeping sounds like it’s the closest to me, yet someone is talking loudly from around me. They’re surrounding me._

_“Is she going to die like this?” A woman’s voice; I recognize the drawled-out syllables and tinge of haughty condescension. “Eww, how boring. I always imagined her death with a bang. Dramatic, over-the-top, at the center of attention.”_

_“She’s not going to die.”_

_“You mean, like,” a guy’s voice says with husky reverberation and a profound softness, “like finding her dead body dangling from her Swarovski chandelier, wearing nothing but a mahogany satin bedsheet, totally Ecstasy-ed out, and instead of Swarovski crystals, it’s all on blazing fire?”_

_“Guys!”_

_There’s snapping of someone’s fingers. “Yes, precisely, I wanna be here for that. Not for this.”_

_“Yeah, fuck this. Uhh, not you, personally, Noona.” Someone ruffles my hair. No, stop him!_

_“Please, you two, can we just_ — _” There’s a shuffling of sheets and I feel someone weighing down on my left arm. They’re closer now, and they sound like_ , _like—_ “ _We’re supposed to be her support. It’s what she needs right now, from her family,” he says in a voice that is my weakness._

_“Hyung, don’t be absurd.”_

_“Hyung, I’m gonna barf.”_

_The weight moves, transfers onto my hand, and someone laces their fingers with mine. I don’t focus on their lecture ‘cause I’m focusing on whatever strength floating around my body to lace back. Lace back already, dumb bitch, just bend your fingers like any normal human being_ — _oh, oh, I’m doing it! Gasping sounds from around me and I can see three people with gaping mouths. But, most of all, I see Magnolia. No, I’m sorry, he’s not Magnolia. He’s mine, he’s_ —

❂ ❂ ❂

When I wake up, I want to cry. No, scratch that, I am crying. My fingertips are wet from my cheeks. Stars, I’m so glad I cleaned off my make-up. And another plus is that it’s still dark out. I’m still crying so I throw my covers back, scoot into my night slippers, take several attempts to light a candle, and make my way to Athy’s rooms. Or actually, Lilly told me it’s called Athy’s Wing. So several rooms, one of which Lilly sleeps in. Also Athy is still sleeping soundly, having no nightmares whatsoever about the story of her impending death. 

So back to my room, singular. I plop onto the edge of my bed, streaming tears like a personal drought curse. I mean, I remember a bit of it. I have… a brother. Actually, that's hurtful, I have other siblings, but most of all, I have a brother, my eldest brother, my...

It—this isn’t enough. 

Maybe… Maybe, I need to go out. Some fresh air should do me some good. But now that I’m heading out, might as well plan my escape. No time better than the present, I guess. For the first time in two years, I quietly open my wardrobe doors for the male Quowen robes I requested before. It’s less complicated than the ones I’ve been wearing, and I can strap one of Forsythia’s swords to the side. Since I’m masquerading as a man, I’ve stemmed the crying enough so my make-up wouldn’t mess up (thank Stars for contouring so I can give myself jawlines and cheekbones I don’t have) and my hair is bunched in a man-bun-loop and a simple ponytail down my back. _There_ —I can pass as a guy. Kinda, sorta. The prettiest guy ever (or contending against His Imperial Asshole), but all the incentive for Obelian guards not wanna chop my mini me off. Or so I’ve appeared to have one. 

Also, I’ve thought of a backstory for my man-Thia (I’m not that stupid, don’t worry), and I’m grown so I don’t tell anyone I’m heading out. Maybe a note. Okay, a note for Lilly. 

The crying wears off just as I stroll the gardens. It’s nice to walk around the palace by yourself in the middle of the night. Sure, there’s dangers everywhere but at this point, who cares? I have a mission at hand so… What am I doing here again? Stars, walking is amazing. Why haven’t I done this before? I’m really feeling this pent-up frustration disappear in invisible waves so I speed up straight into a—

Is this a forest? Oh fuck no. I _hate_ forests. 

Where am I? Why did I think this was a good idea? I’m gonna die in here without Athy or Lilly knowing nothing about the escape. I’ve really fucked this one up, haven’t I? Why do all the trees look the same? In the night, their likeness is much, much worse. Why? Why, Stars, why? There’s not a clear trail I was following but now I’m just shoving past shrubs and tripping over tree roots and stumbling off cliffs—

_Cliffs?_

Well. You know how it goes. When you die, your life usually flashes before your eyes. And as I fall to my death, I’m crying with relief that I know how my life was. The one before this one. My real life, my prior reality that holds my brother and beyond. 

❂ ❂ ❂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! so everything is happening earlier than in Lovely Princess, and also in canon, so Claude's and Athy's first meeting here is when she's four months old lol. i mean she does have a 'guardian' now but that's debatable lol. if you trust thia with your child to your grieving psychopathic husband lmk lmao. also season two is out!! no spoilers but even with chpt 47, there's already a sad af analysis so :((( (a fan team already translated it so if u want the discord, u can comment or instant message my tumblr @ryangha :D)


End file.
